


Thus saith the Lord

by zed_azrael



Category: Hebrew Bible, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zed_azrael/pseuds/zed_azrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to the request: "Israel begs Egypt to let his people go. By any means necessary."</p><p>(Beware of gay bastardization of the Book of Exodus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thus saith the Lord

**Author's Note:**

> Israel is not an established country at this time, and is here broken down into several smaller nations: Mizrahim, Ashkenazim, and Sephardim.

Ashkenazim rouses Mizrahim from an uneasy sleep, and with the fresh layer of dirt and dust smeared across Ashkenazim’s cheeks, Mizrahim scarcely recognises his brother. Green eyes made panicked by tireless apprehension and trauma flicker anxiously across Mizrahim’s face as the boy whispers out an uneasy, “Are you sure you want to do this…?”

Mizrahim chews back his desired words of dissent and passes his tongue swiftly across his lips as he stalls for time. His lips are chapped and taste of the barren desert sand and crystallised blood. The thin crevasse of blood stings feebly and Mizrahim dimly feels the prickle of the criss-crossing open sores drawn across his back, stretching diagonally from sunburnt shoulders, through bronzed skin, and tapering off at his narrow hips. They itch uncomfortably, but he dare not scratch them for fear of drawing fresh blood. Mizrahim sits up a little taller, watching the jittery figure before him and running gritty fingers through hair matted with sweat and grime. This is a bad idea, he thinks wearily to himself, ignoring Ashkenazim’s swallowed murmurs of his name. We are dying. But if we do this, we will all be slaughtered.

“Mizrahim?” Ashkenazim tries again, his voice growing softer and more plaintive, as if burying itself deep within the ashes of his soul. “Akh?”

Brother? Mizrahim hurriedly banishes any thoughts of his once-brother, Egypt. He blinks a few times, clearing the haze of bitter nostalgia from the threshold of his mind before opening his gaze to the reality of the Hebrews; the reality of his blood family, his brother, sister, and Father Yisrael. Av and the Jews, he baldly reminds himself. “A-ah,” he falters, rising awkwardly to his feet and trying not to notice the grave height difference between himself and his brother. “Yes, let’s go,” he says unnecessarily, perhaps to mollify himself more than Ashkenazim. He crosses the shack in three strides and slips his feet into his sandals, pointedly ignoring Ashkenazim’s bare feet. When he closes his eyes to avert his thoughts, a brief touch of warmth caresses his mind, and he hurriedly tells Ashkenazim that Moses and Aaron have already made their way to the palace of Pharaoh.

*

In the midst of the spectacle Moses and Aaron create by calling upon the power of God, Mizrahim, who stands quietly some distance behind the brothers beside Ashkenazim, catches the eye of Egypt. Egypt lifts his chin imperiously, the thick kohl lining his sharp catlike eyes weighing down his stare with challenge. His eyes settle heavily on Mizrahim, and Mizrahim narrows his own eyes in response, watching as thin lips curl up into the traces of a sneer. Ashkenazim shifts uneasily at Mizrahim’s side and tugs at his billowing sleeves.

“Mizrahim,” he mutters between quick, furtive glances at Egypt and Moses, “Mizrahim, Egypt is looking right at us.” Mizrahim distractedly shushes his brother and continues staring down the Egyptian.

Egypt’s small half-smile grows and his eyes glitter with something difficult to place. He lifts a single hand draped in golden jewellery and makes a slight crooking gesture with his finger. Come here. I wish to speak to you.

Mizrahim feels his shoulders tense unconsciously and he places a large hand atop Ashkenazim’s dark curls. “Come with me,” he says, offering no explanation to Ashkenazim’s perturbed questioning. The pair weaves their way through the crowd of sorcerers and Pharaoh’s court, hugging the walls of the grand hall and only pausing halfway when the ominously smiling Egypt stands a few metres before them. Egypt has grown taller, Mizrahim observes, growing well into the crown his mother had groomed him for and then some. There is a sort of angular mystique to his body, wrapped and coiled with lithe muscles in the sort of way a panther is—tightly wound and powerful while still being light on his feet. The striped nemes fits smartly over his head and the lines accentuate the straightness of his nose and the darkness of his makeup against his olive skin.

Egypt takes a few leisurely strides closer to the Hebrews, and the intricate beading of his broad necklace sings like a bell as it strikes his ankh pendant with every step. “Mizrahim, how good it is to see you,” he says derisively, and each word is a vibrating purr from deep in his chest. The smile is acerbic and seems to be breaking his face in two. “I see you have finally returned with your beloved Mosheh…” His voice trails away as his eyes finally take in the scruffy appearance of Ashkenazim. His nose wrinkles in obvious distaste. “And you have brought filth here into the house of our mother.” Ashkenazim wilts a little beneath Egypt’s scornful glare; all traces of the smile are gone. “How shameful.”

“Kemet was not my mother. You know that I, like Moses, am a Hebrew,” Mizrahim says roughly as he takes a deliberate step forward, carefully putting himself in between Egypt and Ashkenazim. “And on behalf of our people, as a representative of my father, Yisrael, I have come to demand our liberation.”

“Liberation?” Egypt’s eyes become malicious and daggered, narrowing until there is nothing but the faintest sliver of molten gold. “How dare you, you impudent—”

A rising din of cries of terror and shock interrupt him and the loud, violent hissing and spitting of a snake fills the air. Ashkenazim cranes his neck in an attempt to see the cause of the distress. “Aaron’s staff!” he exclaims, voice shrill and green eyes wide with amazement, “It has become a serpent!”

Egypt’s eyes flash in fury for a moment and Mizrahim takes the moment to raise his head high and proclaim, “Our liberation is the word of the Lord, Egypt. You must submit to His will and let our people go. Please, my friend,” Mizrahim pleads, voice torn between imploring and demanding. “You must be reasonable.”

There is a dark glimmer behind Egypt’s eyes and he cocks his head to the side, in a seemingly thoughtful manner. “You shall see that I am an understanding Nation, Mizrahim, and that I am one that is willing to listen to logic,” he says, his wrath has withdrawn, rendering he speak in that same sultry murmur that Mizrahim recalls so fondly. “However,” Egypt begins, gesturing vaguely to the bedlam, “it seems impractical that we, ah, negotiate the terms of your release amidst all this chaos.” He moves forward to meet the Hebrew and traces a long finger down his throat, eyes mystified. “There is a more private room down the hallway. It would be prudent for us to discuss in isolation.” A smile creeps back onto Egypt’s face, and it is one befitting of a jackal. “I want you to savour the gratuity of your favour with no distractions.”

The offer is perceptibly laced with foreboding, but Mizrahim only nods sourly, sensing that while there is likely little to be gained from entertaining Egypt, there is certainly nothing to be gained in not trying at all. “Very well,” he mutters, mouth thick with cotton. He turns to his young brother, who is still straining his small form to see what is happening in the centre of the crowd. “Ashkenazim,” Mizrahim quietly says in the boy’s ear. “I’m going with Egypt for a little, all right? Stay here and tell me what happens.”

Ashkenazim visibly stiffens and swings his head around to stare at Mizrahim with disbelief. “But he—” Mizrahim swiftly covers the boy’s mouth with two fingers and gives him a pointed look.

“I’ll be back to collect you when we’re through,” Mizrahim tells him, ignoring the plain expression of horror.

Egypt lets out a wraithlike bark of laughter and leads Mizrahim away like a sheep on the way to its own slaughter.

*

It is an odd and somewhat uncanny surprise to find that Egypt takes him to a room that comprises of little more than a sitting room. At least it isn’t a bedchamber. Once satisfied with their surroundings, Egypt turns back to Mizrahim and bids him to speak. “What possible dribble do you have to say to me?”

“Egypt,” Mizrahim begins, holding his hands out, palms raised to the heavens as a gesture of peace. “While Kemet was a strong Nation, her greatest sin has been passed on to you, my friend. Do you not realise that the earth you step on, the soil from which you draw your life, has been watered in the blood and sweat and tears of my people?” Mizrahim swallows at a growing lump in his throat. “My siblings, my father, all of our people, Egypt! Our people are being brutally exploited and cut down by the viciousness of your kingdom, and how dare you permit these hateful transgressions—the murders of countless innocent lives!—and deem them necessary for the soul of your own reign. Any soul that bathes so freely in the blood of children is one that has fallen through with unspoken darkness,” he whispers harshly, dark eyes boring holes into Egypt.

“Ha,” Egypt scorns, “as if you are one to speak so strongly of the Hebrews. Why, until just recently you were loath of them yourself! Hiding away under the wing of Kemet and my home, then again out with that shepherd Midian.” He storms forward, staring Mizrahim down, nose to nose. “How can you claim to know the sufferings of your so-called brother and sister? Was I, too, not your sibling?” Egypt demands. “You have lived the most fortunate life, you ingrate, and you have no claim to horrors that your siblings cry to you about in the dead of night.” A splayed palm aggressively shoves Mizrahim in the centre of his chest, and the bangles adorning Egypt’s wrist chime. “You are no more a Hebrew than I am,” Egypt sneers. “Why should I respect your plead for freedom? You have not proven yourself as one willing to die for your people. Your words fall on deaf ears, for they hold neither meaning nor learned truth.”

Mizrahim’s blood boils in his head and he violently pushes Egypt away from him. “The blood of Yisrael is in my veins and I am a Hebrew!”

Egypt laughs scathingly, eyes raging with contempt and his fingers flexing and clenching with barely tempered adrenalin. “Is that so?” He surges forward, grabbing Mizrahim by his face and taunting, “Tell me, Jew. Tell me how much you are willing to do for the soul of your forsaken Hebrew nation.”

Silence descends upon Mizrahim, and his mind dances wildly; from the soft kisses Midian presses against his skin, to the crack and snap of the whip, dragging with agonising laziness through torn flesh. The rich trembling of Sephardim’s voice as she sings each song with a clarity that changes colour. The shrieking cries of pain that plague his sleep each night and break every hallowed moment of silence. The unrelenting ache of starvation in his belly and his bones, mourning the lost life and time. The gentle smell of wood smoke and the soft, almost iridescent glow as flames consume the bush. And then Moses falling to his knees, his feet bare, as Mizrahim opens his eyes and sees for the first time.

“Anything,” Mizrahim breathes, and this one word is leaden with pride and is the single most truthful and significant thing he has ever said.

And Egypt’s face becomes very ugly as he hisses, “Then submit to me, Mizrahim!” His name sounds like a venomous curse being spat from Egypt’s lips. “Submit to me, Hebrew, and I will believe your word.” He grasps Mizrahim’s chin and shakes it, jeering, “What is it you desire?”

Mizrahim inhales deeply, looks the great king in the eyes and says, slowly, resolutely, “Let. My people. Go.”

Egypt’s face cracks into a feral smile and he slaps Mizrahim—hard. The golden rings slice the skin of Mizrahim’s cheek, thin rivulets of blood trickling down his face from where he is struck, and he is knocked swiftly to his hands and knees by a sudden punch to his stomach, dazed and gasping from the force of the two blows. Egypt towers above him, face drawn into itself in dark rage as he roughly grabs Mizrahim by the hair and with calm lethality, whispers into his ear, “You know nothing of the drive behind this freedom you hunger after, nothing of what it means to be a son of Yisrael.” The chuckling in Mizrahim’s ear is slow and deliberate and filled with venom. “You wish to be treated like a Jew? A Hebrew? Mizrahim, I will teach you what it means to be a slave in my kingdom.” A moist tongue slides along the shell of his ear and the laughter grows colder. “And when you finally understand what it means to be nothing…then you can come crying to me for your freedom.”

The bindings around Egypt’s waist come free and Mizrahim stares in blank shock, nausea and bile rising in the back of his throat at the sight of the engorged length of flesh before him. Egypt’s grip on his hair grows tighter and he barely suppresses a grimace at the order, “Suck, Hebrew.” Mizrahim’s hesitation is clearly apparent, because Egypt then snarls, “You want to be a Hebrew, don’t you? Well, learn. You’ll do this if you even want a fighting chance for your freedom.” His eyes glitter. “Or would you rather I get a replacement for you? Your brother, perhaps?”

Mizrahim glowers up menacingly at Egypt, but finally opens his mouth. Egypt’s cock slides in without warning, and begins mercilessly thrusting into Mizrahim’s throat, silencing the choked cries and gags. Each thrust is deep and quick and painful, and tears well up in the corners of Mizrahim’s eyes as he fights not to choke on his saliva or Egypt’s cock. It is near impossible to adjust to Egypt’s length while trying to breathe, and Mizrahim distantly begins to feel lightheaded. Egypt’s contorted hands and fingers are boring into his skull, holding Mizrahim in place as he randomly ceases his relentless pounding and buries himself in Mizrahim’s mouth and throat, groaning like a beast. Mizrahim fights down the threatening sick again and gasps for air around Egypt’s cock, trying desperately to ignore the putrid taste or the overwhelming need to vomit.

Egypt’s fingernails dig into his scalp, and Mizrahim only just hears a breathy demand: “Suck.”

He closes his eyes tightly in disgust, so as not to see his own humiliation, and closes his lips around Egypt’s cock and sucks as best as he can tolerate, tightly ordering himself not to think of the musk of sex permeating the air or the scratch of Egypt’s pubic hair or the acrid taste of semen in his mouth.

The rapid thrusting begins again, and Mizrahim’s fists clench just a little harder with each hit to the back of his throat. Then Egypt pauses for a split second, as if thinking about something. And he withdraws from Mizrahim’s mouth and Mizrahim believes for a hysterical moment that it is over—only to realise that Egypt is behind him and fumbling to remove his clothing. There’s a slick, blunt pressure at his entrance, and Egypt is mumbling something. Mizrahim’s eyes widen. Wait.

He nearly pitches forward with a pained shriek, and Egypt just barely holds him up by the back of his robes, his mouth alternating between haggard breathing and biting Mizrahim’s neck hard enough to leave sickly bruises. The sex is close to unbearable; Mizrahim can feel his body being stretched too quickly and too forcefully, his insides being torn apart. The hand Egypt clapped over his mouth is the only thing keeping his screams bottled away as he feebly tries to pull away from Egypt’s hips with each removal and impaling.

It is an agonising lifetime later that Egypt empties himself deep inside Mizrahim’s bowels, and at this point, completely sore and raw, the final withdrawal is worlds more excruciating than the first thrust. Mizrahim lies slumped on the floor, used and still jerking with random spasms. Even with his blurred vision, Mizrahim can see Egypt standing above him again, redressing himself and staring down with an expression of revulsion. Mizrahim struggles to lift himself but cries out at the pain throbbing in his body. Egypt sniffs haughtily and adjusts his garments. “Hebrew,” he spits. “What is it you desire?”

Mizrahim’s voice is scratchy and cracks when he whispers, “Let my people go.”

Egypt stares at him for a long moment. At last, he derisively mutters, “Filthy Hebrew.” And he turns to leave. “I am the Kingdom of Egypt, and I do not yield for any son of Yisrael.” And he sweeps away to the entrance of the chamber, pausing by the corner and saying in a harsh, commanding way, as if to a servant, “Well, what are you doing here? Get out of my sight—and take him when you do.”

There’s a muffled squeak of response and a pale-faced Ashkenazim peeks around the threshold of the room. His cheeks and nose are red and his large green eyes are glassy. He sniffles and wipes at his nose before shuffling into the room and falling to his knees beside his collapsed brother. “M-Mizrahim?”

Mizrahim gingerly shifts his positioning, wincing when shooting pains flare up his spine. He glances over at his little brother and fails valiantly at a smile. “Ashkenazim,” he whispers, because he does not trust his voice. “Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?” Ashkenazim echoes faintly; he laughs humourlessly. He carefully helps move Mizrahim into a sitting position, licking his lips nervously at every cringe and sharp inhalation. “What about you?! He just brutalised you, Akh!”

Mizrahim inhales wearily and slides his eyes shut. This is my brother. He has always been my brother. He bites into his lower lip as Ashkenazim helps him to his feet, and he leans heavily on his brother for support. “I’ll survive,” he says simply. And before Ashkenazim can protest, Mizrahim asks, “Whatever happened with Moses and Aaron?”

“Oh!” Ashkenazim looks like he had quite forgotten them. “Well,” he begins as he acts as a crutch for Mizrahim to walk on as they make to leave the palace, “God turned Aaron’s staff into a serpent, so Pharaoh had all his sorcerers do the same.”

“Did it work?” Mizrahim asks, if only to distract himself from the sickening dripping he feels down between his legs.

“Yes, they all turned their rods into serpents,” Ashkenazim replies.

“Then what happened?”

Ashkenazim looks over to Mizrahim, eyes filled with wonder. “Then the serpent God created devoured the others whole.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on 11 November 2009 at the [Hetalia Kink Meme](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/11411.html?thread=23164819#t23164819), and later on 3 January 2011 at my [LJ](http://zed-azrael.livejournal.com/40889.html#cutid1).


End file.
